To my grandma, with love.

To my grandma,

I want you to know I would have lived a thousand lifetimes in that sterile, white room of the ICU. I want you to know that I would have given my life to save yours. You taught me how to love and when it was time for love to be tested, as it always is, I had to love you enough to let you go.

What you taught me set you free.

After 13 days of needles and dialysis and tears, you looked me in the eyes and said, “get me out of here.”

Two days later we did just that.

You were released from all of your pain, from your suffering, from this life.

I wasn’t prepared to learn that ending your suffering meant the true beginning of mine. I held your hand and with what seemed like a million, “it’s okay, you can go” lies, you went.

You took your last breath and I died.

I wasn’t ready. It wasn’t okay.

I was ill-prepared for a heartbreak so intense I could hear the cracks. I wasn’t prepared for the breath to be taken out of me when that pitchy line on the monitor went flat.